


Chronicles of a Padded Cell

by Ethanol, TeamAlphaQ



Category: South Park
Genre: Based on a True Story, Don't drop the soap, F/F, F/M, I did research guys, I swear, I swear there's a plot we're not just doing this so we can write prison sex, Kyle's nickname is Orange, M/M, Prison AU, Sex and Drugs, Slow Burn, Stan is a drunk bastard, Torture, We're trying to make this accurate, but not unbearably slow, it's in a prison au guys what do you expect, rampant acoholism, uncomfortable situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:22:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethanol/pseuds/Ethanol, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamAlphaQ/pseuds/TeamAlphaQ
Summary: Stan didn't belong in prison. He'd been tried and convicted for a murder he didn't commit, and taken prison over the death penalty. But he didn't really care. He had his drink, he had a bed, sort of. What more could he ask for.Then Kyle, the policeman who'd arrested him showed up, and everything went to hell in a hand basket.





	Chronicles of a Padded Cell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gothicornqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothicornqueen/gifts), [beanstalks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanstalks/gifts).



> Mana: hey guys we did a thing together  
> ring that bell and follow us for more updates~  
> (I'm pretty sure he was joking with this A/N, but it made me giggle)
> 
> Que: I swear, I can explain.
> 
> Mana and I have been lowkey coauthoring a story for a few months now. IT's taken forever to get to where it is, and so I can tell you that there won't be many updates, but who knows, maybe it'll inspire me to start writing CC again. I hope it does, otherwise, I'm back to being stuck.
> 
> Erm... This got depressing.
> 
> Enjoy!

**_Clang!_ **

"Alright Prisoner 260-A, up against the wall.” The voice grated on the convict’s ears, even more so than the ringing sound of metal that still reverberated through the prison. “Don't make this take any longer than it needs to!" 

Muttering under his breath, the tired occupant of cell 260 lifted his head and dragged himself off of his stiff cot, making sure to display just how irritated he was with this turn of events. Seemingly dissatisfied with his speed, the guard banged his baton against the bars once more. 

Grunting, the prisoner muttered, "Geez Charlie, might wanna try some feng-shui or something. I'm moving, I'm moving." Lifting up his head, the man stood against the wall and squinted against the harsh lights of the hall outside trying to see what was going on. 

Yawning, he combed a hand through dark raven hair and tossed it out of his eyes as the cell doors were thrown open. "You gonna let me out?" he joked, despite the guard's less than optimal mood. Charles just chuckled darkly, as though the question was amusing.

"Nah, not gonna let you out. Just gonna give you a roommate.”

The prisoner raised a curious eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Oh yeah." The convict narrowed his eyes and caught the nasty grin of the guard, which displayed his missing front tooth. "Careful with him 260-A, don't hurt him too bad."

Smiling back, the expression coming off as flat and mirthless, Stan said, "Don't worry Charloe, I'll treat him just fine."

)))+(((

Stanley Marsh hadn't always been in jail. Obviously. Something had put him there.

At one point, he’d been a free man, struggling through the drudge of life just like everyone else. He lived in a city where it was easy to get lost in the hum of the rest of the world, vanish as effectively you’d disappear. No one really noticed him, and that was the way that Stan liked it.

Despite the several inevitable misdemeanors to his name, he'd for the most part lived a pretty upright life. He could get a little heavy when it came to drinking, but that was alright, right? It wasn’t a  _ bad _ thing, he wasn’t a bad person. Stan hadn't been the kind of man you'd expect to see in prison, but that had all changed the day he found his sister's dead body on his front porch.

A sane individual might be seeing the obvious facts right about now, that someone had killed his sister as a way to get at Stan, but unfortunately, the police force of Denver hadn't been quite as understanding. No matter how many times Stan  _ insisted _ that if he  _ had _ killed his sister, he wouldn't have left her on his own doorstep, law enforcement kept finding coincidental pieces of evidence to tie him to a crime he'd never committed. At some point, he'd just given up fighting it because even though he'd never laid a finger on Shelly, the investigator assigned to the case saw it differently, and there was only so much you could say.

_ I'm innocent _ started to lose it's punch after the first few times, after all.

The attorney provided for him when the trial came around had seemed to act against him, appealing to the court that he would plead guilty, anything to avoid the death penalty, which had been just peachy considering the alternative was going to be an eternity in prison. The whole show had felt like a staged middle school play rather than an actual court case.

_ A life sentence with no chance of parole. _ His sentence had come swiftly. The trial hadn’t even lasted a day.

Was the verdict unjust? Probably. But no one cared either way. There was no one to fight for him, and no one who wanted to see the man Stan Marsh made himself out to be freed. Stan didn't seem to care either way, his reaction to the sentence a mere shrug, and a quick left hook to a guard who tried to drag him away. The scene quickly turned into a joyous spectacle for the jury and gathered onlookers, with guards piling up and throwing kicks onto the newly convicted with almost animalistic enthusiasm.

The prison he was sent to, a supposedly maximum security joint, wasn't as bad as Stan had originally assumed it would be. Hell, everyone else there was sort of docile, almost like they'd been either whipped into shape, or had just given up caring at all. Originally, Stan had feared it would be the former, but after the first month, he was convinced it was the latter. After all, the guards were more like high school bullies than actual staff, and the convicts that roamed the place seemed to be suffering from soul-crushing boredom rather than anything else.

Needless to say, he’d settled in quickly.

Now, that didn't mean the place wasn't dangerous. Stan ended up with several black eyes within the first week alone, but he gave as good as he got, and generally, people left him alone. He wasn't the toughest, but considering the other prisoners, he was by no means the weakest either. And after he’d put several of the biggest in the compound down for the count with little more than a few well placed hits, Stan had a reputation. 

Add to that his private cell meant for two, and his connections he still had with the free world, and to be honest, Stan found that he didn't care that he was in prison. He still had his alcohol, didn’t he? He still got food and clothes. It was... Well, just kind of normal at this point.

So it was without any real regret that he started to drink himself into oblivion, the outside world no longer of any concern to him. He hadn't killed his sister, and he hadn't deserved to end up here, but at least the mash potatoes were passable, and he'd gotten a job in the Commissary that let him sit while he worked. What more could he ask for?

Other than freedom, of course.

The one thing he’d never been given was a roommate. Stan had only been able to assume it was because they wanted him in solitary confinement most of the time. Perhaps he was considered too dangerous to have a friend, or a companion at least. Most of the time, it hardly bothered him, but there were days where the place would get a special sort of quiet, and some company would be nice. Those brief periods of sobriety were dull as hell, after all. So he’d asked in the hopes that someone up there would take pity on him.

He’d asked, but he never thought he’d actually get one.

)))+(((

"A'ight, get in there!" The guard barked. Another guard, Timothy, yanked a protesting ball of energy around the corner and into Stan’s line of sight. Interested, the convict narrowed his eyes and focused on him. As he was shoved into the cell, Stan took in his appearance. He wore a bright orange jumpsuit, much like what Stan was wearing, only it looked fresher, and was a size too small. The moment he’d been freed, he turned and yelled out something in protest, only for it to be drowned out from the reverberating slam of his cell door.   
"This one's got a bit of a mouth on him, 260-A. He's been bitching since he got here, so make sure he shuts his trap by lights out!" **Clang.** With the door already locked tight, Charles didn't bother to stick around. Within moments, he had already holstered his truncheon and was quickly disappearing out of sight from the limited view of the bars. 

"Don't cha' worry, Char', I'll be a good babysitter!" Stan called, wandering towards the bars and leaning as far out as he could to yell after him. Of course for his troubles, the only response he received was the echoing reverberations of his own voice, bouncing back a few more times before fading into the background noise. Groaning, irritated from the sudden wake up call and then the basic lack of civility, he began to drag himself back to his cot. "Fucking asshole. It’s not my fault I didn’t want to suck you off…”

Trying to remember what he’d been doing, Stan stared at the cot in front of him for a moment before shrugging internally. He couldn’t even remember what day it was, expecting him to remember what was going on around him was a big much. _It's probably not important anyway_ , Stan decided, letting it slip from his mind entirely.   
But the repeated tapping of a standard issue shoe against concrete behind him soon jolted Stan’s mind back into the present.

_ Ah. The roommate. _

"Hello to you too, asshole.”

Dejectedly sighing, the only appropriate response to this particular situation, Stan ran a tired hand through his raven black hair and slumped back down to his bed. Spending only a few seconds in this position, the man gave in and stooped quickly so he could reach under it, eyes kept on the convict still standing where the guards had left him. Muttering something under his breath, Stan groggily responded, "...Yeah?"   
"Nothing? No greeting, no directions, no anything?!" _Jesus this guy is noisy._ Staring at the demanding man, Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to block out the blaring volume of the man’s voice instead of bothering to answer immediately.

“Not even a fucking _that’s your bed?_ What the hell? They could have at least put me in a room with someone that has basic manners!”  
"This is prison, wise guy, not a hotel." Producing a bottle from underneath his bed, Stan let a loose smirk play across his face as he eyed the glass container. Quickly snapping the seal open to take a long swig, the prisoner attempted to lose himself to the burn of the drink, rather than the annoyance of the other human in the room.  
Much to the raven's displeasure, the other's voice only got louder. "Why do you have alcohol in here?!" This time, Stan didn't bother to reply, prioritizing draining the bottle over giving the man his attention. _He'll probably just keep shouting._ Tilting his head up, he relished the searing heat of the liquor that reminded him there were better solutions than yelling back.  
Meanwhile, his new roommate seemed to be debating with himself, concluding said debate with a long draw of breath. Releasing it with a firm puff, the man said in a marginally more controlled tone. "At least tell me your name."   
Stan parted the bottle's mouth from his lips for a mere moment to say, “260-A,” before instantly returning to downing the entirety of the drink.   
Hands ruffling through his explosion of red curls, the convict persisted, albeit with a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “Very funny, what’s your _human_ name?" 

Disappointingly, this was when the alcohol decided to run out. Dropping the bottle to his cot, marginally miffed as to how it had vanished so quickly, the perpetual drunk watched as the sparkling container rolled off of his bed and to the floor, where it played it’s short, somber rhythm against the concrete. Finally, the Raven answered, "Stan."

For once, the other hand no response. Mildly perplexed, more at his sudden ability to make the idiot shut up than at anything else, Stan glanced up at the red-head and raised an eyebrow. What he found was a look of pure, unadulterated rage. "I fucking  _ knew _ you looked familiar!!"

"Oh?" Stan asked, squinting at the other in an attempt to produce a spark of recognition from his own addled mind, but no such revelation came. Shrugging internally, not particularly giving a shit, he muttered, "Good to know that my sparkling personality is known far and wide." His flippant attitude didn't win him any brownie points with his new cell mate.

"Don't you fucking act like you don't remember me, you  _ murderer _ ." The man spat the word like it was toxic, which was ironic considering he too was in prison. "I don't care about that personality bullshit, I can’t believe they’d put me in here with a goddamn criminal!"

"I'm sorry," Stan said, holding up a hand to cut off the tirade. "But have we met?"

Suddenly, his vision was eclipsed by the fiery convict, who attempted to all but shove him off of his cot and into the cement wall. Stumbling backwards, Stan leaned away as the man yelled, "I was the one who fucking put you in here to rot!" His emerald eyes burned with loathing."I was the one who made you  _ pay _ for  _ killing your own sister! _ "

_ Okay, that's it. _ Stan's patience, and his drunken calm, only went so far. With little trouble, the man reversed their positions, slamming the Ginger into the wall instead. Totally unfazed, he used the few inches he had over the other convict to loom over him threateningly. Pulling his lips into a peaceful smile, Stan said in a chilled tone, "Then I'm sure you'll remember that I never laid a  _ finger _ on her, asshole. I wouldn't go throwing blame around here unless you know who you're talking to."

The red-head’s only response was to twitch his lips up in a snarl

Giving him one last shove, Stan left him against the wall, almost entirely positive that he wasn't going to try and fight anymore. Just as he'd assumed, the new prisoner did nothing but stand stock still and stare at him with wide, yet murderous eyes.  _ Well, it's not like getting stabbed in my sleep will make my life any more boring. _

"You can lie all you want Marsh, but I know what you did." At that, Stan finally turned to look the man up and down and really take him in. Though it might have just been his imagination, he felt like he recognized something about that face. Even twisted in anger as it was right now, it looked vaguely familiar. Like if he saw the man in different attire, he'd recognize him.

“You  _ know, _ do you?” Stan asked, his eyes narrowed. “You  _ know _ how I think? How I feel?” He shook his head. “You don’t know shit, and you don’t care to either.” After a pregnant pause, Stan admitted, “Which is fine, cause I don’t care about you much either.”

“I cared enough to lock you up!” the Ginger retorted hotly.

“Well then I’m sure you’ll be gratified to know that unlike you, I don’t hold grudges.  _ I’m _ not going to stab you in your sleep.” The other convict didn’t look like he trusted Stan’s words, but that was alright. Since when had anyone trusted him?

Humming, Stan leaned against the bars of his-  _ their _ cell, and asked, "So, 260-B, I never caught your name. Mind enlightening me as to who I'm going to have to point to when they're wondering who to send to the Hole?"

When the man didn't answer, Stan shrugged and said, "I suppose it doesn't really matter. Down here, you're just a number." Cracking a practically maniacal smirk, the drunk added, "Just know that some numbers are more equal than others."

"And how equal are you?" the red-head bit out, clearly none to pleased with the way Stan was treating him, not that he particularly gave enough of a shit to change.

"Oh Orange," Stan drawled, settling on the nickname on the spot. "Around these parts, I'm one of the most equal numbers around~"

"Orange?" he asked suspiciously, his arms still crossed. He clearly wasn’t happy about being forced to ask for clarification, and Stan didn’t blame him. When he’d first gotten here, he’d been silent, not willing to give people easy ammunition to use against him. The familiarity in the convict’s behavior drew something resembling pitty from the drunk, and he decided not to be cruel.

"Your nickname. Since you won't tell me your name and 260-B is too much of a goddamn mouthful." Stan waited for the words to sink in, and was pleased to see that the redhead had understood enough of his drunken babbling to get the gist. For a brief moment, there was a flash of relief across Orange’s face, no doubt glad that it wasn’t a _bad_ thing, but it was quickly replaced by more irritation and an annoyed click of the tongue.  
"Whatever, it doesn't matter, doesn't it?" Orange snapped in response. Stan had to give the man credit, despite the disadvantages stacked against him, he refused to show any sign of weakness. “I’m not your stupid pet, and you don’t get to give me nicknames like I’m some sort of trained d-”

A loud slam against the bars silenced him immediately. Stan hid a smirk. Turning away, he ambled back to his bed, eyes fixated on the ground. The convict’s irritated huff cut into the silence and he started to complain again, but the raven's irritated groan stopped it. Pulling a drawn expression, Stan grumbled, "Jesus, that nickname was supposed to be about your hair and clothes, not about you being so goddamn annoying."   
"Quite a lot of shit talk, for a fucking murderer." Orange spat, no doubt vexed by the drunk's nonsense. The words were rude, but Stan still guffawed. Mockery tainted his laughter, and cold, piercing eyes locking gazes with forest green. In that short moment, the raven delivered a grim reminder to the redhead, that no matter what status he’d had before, he didn’t have power anymore.

“Remember Orange,” Stan clucked, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “You're one of us now. And trust me, we have the bigger stick."

Stan spared Orange a light smile before he rolled back onto his cot, resting on his back, letting one hand dangle off the edge to absently spin the empty bottle on the floor. Those crystalized voids that were his eyes stared up, watching the new prisoner surreptitiously, in case he decided to make any untoward moves.  
Predictably, the silence didn’t last long. In fact, the redhead was right about to kick back another argument when the deafening crackle of the comms systems tore Stan’s attention to the limited view between his bars.  
**GET OFF YOUR ASSES, LADIES. - - GET -**

The message was anything but clear, most of it swimming in the audible discord of metal clanging and unknown guards barking orders to the cells they were passing by, but the general idea got through. Stan’s gaze moved off of Orange and to the cell door, waiting for the inevitable.  
The guard from earlier came into view, the metal door clicking open soon after. "You two got introduced to each other? How was he, 260-B?" Charles asked, leering. 

Though the question was directed to his cellmate, Stan decided to answer for him. "You know I don't bite, Charlo! Not much." Stan grinned, sluggishly picking himself up to his feet. “It went wonderfully.”  
The guard didn’t bother to pay attention to the Raven, instead keeping his watchful glare on the other convict. "I'd show you around, 260-B. But-" He swung the metal door open, stepping to the side to present the greater prison to the cells occupants. "I'm sure 260-A will show you around just fine. Get going!"   
"Can't you give us five more minutes, pretty please?~" Stan batted his eyelashes, his falsetto wavering with the alcohol in his blood. The guard, seeming immune to the drunk's antics, showed no physical reaction. 

"I will taze you if you don't get a move on,” Charles warned.   
The raven shrugged, the lopsided grin still present on his face, and dragged his feet across the floor towards the door, lightly shoving the redhead aside with his shoulder on the way. "Can't say I didn't try. Come on, Orange~" He crooked a beckoning finger at the red-head, prompting an annoyed noise from the convict. “Is that any way to respond? I’m only trying to be nice.”

Thankfully, Orange decided to comply, albeit suspiciously.

As Stan wandered out of his cell, his movements loose and uncaring, the man watched in amusement as Orange followed along behind him. Despite his clear hatred of the Raven haired convict, the newbie clearly knew better than to wander off on his own. Which was probably a good thing because Stan wasn't really in the mood to go saving anyone's stupid ass.  
"Where are we going?" the fiery redhead asked, his brows furrowed and his body tensed. _No no, you have to loosen up, otherwise they'll know you're fresh meat. Not that you don't look it already._ Keeping those thoughts to himself, Stan stuffed his hands into the loose pockets of his jumpsuit and stared up at the fluorescent lights.  
"C'mon Orange, I'll give you three guesses," Stan said, smirking lazily at the man, who just glared at him. "What, don't like guessing games? What a shame, I had plans to play twenty questions with you."

"Don't be a smart ass," the Ginger growled, as if that was supposed to be threatening. It wasn't, and Stan had no qualms about making this known. Turning around so he could properly face the man, Stan skipped along backwards, ignoring the other prisoners that were slowly filtering out of their cells.  
"I'm nothing _but_ , Orange," Stan pointed out, his grin glittering dangerously. Looking around at the other prisoners, picking out the few people who he actually tolerated, the Raven lifted his hand in greeting before focusing on his cellmate once more. "For your information, it's Lunch time, and I'd suggest not complaining about every little thing once we get there, because some people won't take too kindly to it."

"And you will?" Orange asked skeptically.

"Oh no, I will  _ actively _ give you shit for it," Stan reassured the man, winking and turning back to face forward. The growl of frustration behind him caused the man to snort.

And thus begun Stan’s days locked in a cell with the man who had locked him up.

_ Oh, this is going to be fun. _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Goth darling, Bean, I hope you both enjoy~
> 
> Mana: i helped. support your local and/or international artist because they do great things like que here. hope you enjoyed reading yes and have nice day


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